Still Waiting for a Friend
by Max Crimson
Summary: John tried, but failed to live on after Sherlock's death. He spent two years trying to get his life back on track. Sherlock came home just a little too late to save John, John, who was the reason he stayed alive while disposing of Moriarty's web of crime. Even London's most creative killings can bring the Detective out of his slumber.


Still Waiting for my Friend.

 _ **Lyrics**_

I don't own Sherlock, or _Waiting for a Friend_ by The Pretty Recklace

Summery- John tried, but failed to live on after Sherlock's death. He spent two years trying to get his life back on track. Sherlock came home just a little too late to save John, John, who was the reason he stayed alive while disposing of Moriarty's web of crime. Even London's most creative killings can bring the Detective out of his slumber.

 _ **The Night is when  
The Ghosts all come out**_

John barely registered anything that happened around him anymore. He felt like life wasn't even worth living without that dynamic detective in his life. He actually missed the severed body parts that filled the fridge.

John curled in on himself; the drugs had turned his lean, muscular body into skin and bones. He doubted that he even weighed more than 90 pounds, he smothered his face into Sherlock's pillow, taking in faint smell.

 _ **Playin with my head  
Spin it all around**_

He grabbed a nearby needle and injected what little was in it into his waning vein.

 _ **This room is like a prison cell  
I'm all by myself**_

Removing the needle he tossed it to the ground with the other used syringes and sighed, feeling it pulse through him, the liquid racing down his veins like a racecar on a track. He glanced over to the dark bedside table, cradling his arm close to his chest.

Tears pooled in his eyes when he looked at the picture sitting there. John had practically forced Sherlock into the photo, but the look happy. John was smiling, wearing the jumper that Sherlock had gotten him when he used his favorite jumper in an experiment, and destroyed it. Sherlock was wearing his usual dark button up dress shirt that looked like it was about to pop open at any moment.

Granted, Sherlock wasn't smiling, he was smirking, looking down at a smiling John.

John let the tears fall and clean his sunken face, his salty tears was the only wet thing to hit his face in a week. John just, didn't care anymore. He just wished that the memories and the emotions that fallowed would go away.

 _ **I'm waiting for my friend  
To come and break me out**_

Sherlock stared out the window blankly. His body may've been in a plane heading to London, but _he_ was in his mind palace going over every little thing that could possibly happen when he revealed himself to John. He was slightly worried, Mycroft refused to tell him anything about John, other than the fact that he was still residing at 221B Baker Street.

The cabbie Sherlock hailed could've been quieter. He just kept trying to make conversation, and when that didn't work, he just started naming random parts of London and their historical factors.

Sherlock's phone rang, he just let it ring, nothing was important enough interrupt his train of thought on John. When Mycroft gave Sherlock is old phone back, there were several missed calls, and even more voice messages, all from John.

In some of the messages John sounded intoxicated, or, and Sherlock hoped he was wrong, high. In a few he sounded hysterical, but hardly any of them sounded like John.

Sherlock spent his time, both on the plane and in the cab, deducing what would happen when he saw John, and what had gone on in his absents.

Sherlock quickly paid his cab fare and left, unlocking the flat doors with ease. He climbed the 17 steps to door leading to the living room, there Sherlock hesitated. He didn't hear the sound of the telly, or the turning of a page, nor the tapping of computer keys. He didn't smell tea or warm food. His gut was telling him that he didn't want to see what was behind the door in front of him. It told him to turn and crawl back into whatever hole he crawled out of, but Sherlock was not one to back away from anything, of course, that didn't mean his cool mask didn't slip when he opened that door.

"John?" He asked hesitantly.

 _ **You left me today  
Lyin on the floor**_

Blood stained the carpet between John's plush, red chair, and Sherlock's leather one. In three strides, Sherlock was kneeling before John.

"John!" Sherlock said, fear and sorrow clouding his usual cold baritone voice. Sherlock checked, prayed, for a pulse, no matter how light. At the touch on his neck John's eyes fluttered open.

"JOHN!" Sherlock cried.

"Sher…lock…" John said, his voice fading. "I'm… coming… just, wait a little bit… longer…" John said as he faded, love and adoration never leaving his eyes until nothing shown though.

 _ **I wanted you to stay  
Seems you wanted more**_

Sherlock reached for his phone, the light was tinted green with the words " _One New Voicemail_ " written across the top of the screen. As realization hit him he cried out in anguish, alerting Ms. Hudson in the flat below.

Sherlock ignored the squeal of the door as he clutched John's body close to him. He didn't care that there was a bloody needle on his lap. He didn't care that he was showing emotion in front of Ms. Hudson and whoever else had come in. He only cared that his precious blogger had been taken away from him.

 _ **This bed is like a prison cell  
I'm all by myself**_

Sherlock had spent another day doing nothing but listen to the voicemails John had sent him. The last one, the most resent one was the most coherent, the one that most sounded like the John Sherlock knew and loved.

Sherlock only moved to plug his phone in; he didn't want to not be able to hear John's voice for a moment.

With his phone plugged in he inserted the needle into his arm and injected some 7% into his veins. The needle slipped out effortlessly and Sherlock dropped it into the waste basket next to his dresser, hearing plastic and glass clink and tink together.

'I will have to empty that later.' Sherlock thought as he pushed replay on his phone, John's eerily calm voice filled the room.

"Hey Sherlock." He began, and Sherlock got as comfortable as he could on his bed.

"I know that, you can't hear this, I really must be mad to call this number again. Well, you don't have to wait much longer for me, I'm sorry it's taken this long to come and join you. There are something's I wanted to say before meeting up with you. I wanted to say, that I'm sorry that I couldn't stop this. Stop you from… jumping.

I'm a bloody Doctor! I should've seen the sighs, I should've done something!" The Doctor said, his voice rising in anger. He stopped and took several deep breaths.

"I. I also wanted to tell you, that I love you. I never got to tell you that in person, and I've regretted it ever since your… fall. Maybe if I had told you on the phone before… Maybe you would still be here, by my side." John sighed deeply, gathering the right words.

"If Mycroft, or Lestrade, or Anderson or bloody Donovan in listening to this, I'm sure that your tiny, little insignificant minds," John sneered, "No offence Mycroft and Greg, but you've must've realized that this is my suicide note, and frankly I couldn't care less about you listening in. Well, goodbye everyone. I'm on my way Sherlock. Just wait a little longer." John said softly. A little beep signaled the end of the message.

A tear leaked out of Sherlock's eye as the coke's effect made him numb, and Sherlock slept.

 _ **Still waiting for my friend  
To come and break me out**_

The last six months had not been good to Sherlock. He was looking more and more like a living skeleton, and with his already lean figure, wasn't too hard. Sherlock's phone vibrated on the coffee table twice before falling still. The staccato vibrations told Sherlock that it was a text, and the time of day led Sherlock to deduce that it was Lestrade with a case for him. Sherlock just ignored it and turned into the leather couch.

 _ **There's stone cold bars on my door  
For this stone cold heart**_

Sherlock tried to go back to his mind palace, but the sound of mug clanking as it was set on a wooden table made him turn his head and look with one eye. The tall paper fell foreword ever so slightly, revealing short, blond hair. A hand reached for the mug on the coffee table next to him and the paper fell even more, uncovering half of John's face.

Sherlock groaned, draping an arm over his eyes. John's glanced up from his paper over to Sherlock, then went back to reading his paper.

 _ **Some People Say  
Life is like a Lie  
Take it Day by Day**_

Sherlock lay still on the couch for as long as he could stand it. It took no more than five minutes for him to give up and sigh, his arm sliding from his face to the floor.

 _ **Never knowing why  
My Head is like a Prison Cell**_

Grunting, Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the couch, his feet resting on cool wood.

 _ **I'm all by myself**_

Sherlock wrapped his silk-ish bathrobe tighter around his thin frame as he made his way to his room. Leaving the door open he crossed to his bookshelf. He plucked " _The full collection of Edger Allen Poe._ " From the shelf and opened it. Sherlock never really got into the whole pill thing, not until John's death. He clutched the small, orange prescription pill bottle in one bony hand, and snapped the book closed with the other. He placed the book back in its place.

 _ **I'm waiting for my friend  
To come and break me out**_

Sherlock took a change and glanced out the door, the angle giving him the perfect view of 'John'. The newspaper had disappeared, to where Sherlock didn't know, nor did he care. John was giving Sherlock face of mixed emotions. His mouth said, "Don't. Don't even think about it. Through those pill out. Right now!" while his eyes begged him to down each and every pill in the bottle.

"I'm coming John." Sherlock said swallowing non-existing saliva.

 _ **Still waiting for my friend**_

Sherlock sat down in his leather chair, across from John, Pill bottle and glass of water in hand. He dumped the entire content of the bottle into his mouth, quickly washing it down with a big swig of water. Sherlock carefully sat the bottle and the water on his side table and watched John, his vision beginning to blur.

 _ **To come and Break me out.**_


End file.
